The President
by PurpleYin
Summary: Spoilers up to 1x07. Cooper and Violet fic. There's a first time for everything, and thought their first time never technically happened Violet's imagination finds a way to compensate for what she's lacking.


Spoilers: Up to 1x07.

A/N: Thanks to severuslovesme for betaing and providing the prompt "first time".

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Violet can't remember the first time she had the dream, but it soon became her favorite recurring one.

She wakes up that morning, eyes closed but able to feel the warmth of the sun filtering through her blinds onto her face and the day already feels like a good one. Some of her best days come on days after she dreams one of _those_ dreams.

It starts to come back to her as she stretches lazily, hazy images of a gold lined invitation to an elaborate party with ambassadors and generals in attendance. In the middle of it she had arrived, every bit the goddess in her bright red evening dress and the diamond necklace he'd sent as a small gift.

She recalls dancing, the feeling of emotional intoxication in his arms. Being twirled around and around, the swish of her gown swirling around her ankles, until she was dizzy and laughing. The room had hushed then, as if in awe of them, but all she'd cared about was that he was looking at her intently, and he'd said one thing, a compliment so simple that had nevertheless made her feel like the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen, but then he could always do that, with just his eyes, with one small glance given. The room was blurry with the daze of the dream and the speed of their movement, spinning to the music.

Her heart had been pounding as she'd buried her head in his neck, breathing in his musky cologne as she hid from the world, trying to calm down and breathe normally, waiting out the rest of the song before they could disappear in the crowd.

The dream is usually different each time, a little variation to spice it up and this time there was a subtle change when it comes to the part where they retreat to a secluded study. The anticipation had been high as always, and even remembering it she feels a bit out of breath, but as the picture in her mind finally comes into focus the differences in the details are throwing her off balance. Going over the sequences in her imagination she starts to relive it.

The study is as sumptuous as always, with deep rich reds on the walls and dark sleek mahogany desk behind him but she notes that the corsage he wears is the wrong colour, a light yellow that doesn't match her dress and all of a sudden she feels irrational, ready to accuse him of being unfaithful or uncommitted. With no words spoken she is striding towards him ready to strike out, full of the irrational emotions that appear and disappear so quickly in a dream state – but he catches her hands in a firm yet gentle grip, seconds before she was going to slap him and all the anger drains out of her as he places them tenderly on his shoulders. She ought not mess with his suit but can't resist dusting off the fluff on the fabric and smoothing it over.

Her heart was racing at the uncertainty that was foreign to this scenario. She couldn't figure out why she felt so unsure – that had never happened before. They stood as close as you'd expect for lovers but the man before her suddenly didn't seem the right one, or at least not the one she had expected. His chest was broader, his voice deeper and, cautiously looking up, she realized that his eyes were sorrowful and a richer, darker blue. A blue that seemed almost electric as she moved her mouth towards his, glances divided between his eyes and his waiting mouth, moistened by his tongue...

She stretched again and pondered this new direction of the dream. It was unexpected, but not necessarily unwelcome. She decided that it part of a healthy imagination for Bill to change eventually, for her to get over her substitute as well as her ex. She barely gave it a moments' thought what direction her fantasy might be taking.

But the second time Violet has the dream that week it's a little less familiar and vastly more revealing.

To say that office furniture had been involved would be an understatement. He'd snuck her in during the day, cancelled important appointments to be with her – all on a whim, instigated after a playful phone conversation. And she'd turned up wearing nothing particularly special, slightly crinkled day clothes because she'd had no opportunity to change. He'd greeted her with a back crunching hug, grateful beyond words to see her and somehow she'd deflated at that, wishing so desperately she could have looked better. Except the wish hadn't lasted long, not after her mind had had the chance to process the devastating kiss that had come once he'd released her. Every section of her brain shut down as they sank back against the couch. No thoughts got through, no panic about what they where doing and where, and more importantly who, letting her simply enjoy the sensation of his lips teasing hers and his fingers trailing the back of her neck.

Naturally their afternoon sojourn hadn't ended there. Hands ever greedy took advantage of their privacy as they both took the time to explore thoroughly – eliciting stifled but still certainly suspicious moans. Even with hours available they still shed all interfering clothing with speed born from desperation.

The feel of his body pressed up against hers was making her flush and only increasing her desire for him. The effort he was devoting to striving to be closer with each second found him lifting her across to the gleaming desk, the masterpiece of the boardroom, though somehow he was the one who ended up laid out on it with her straddling him, denying the inevitable for one minute more and stretching out the almost unbearable tension with a grin on her face.

In every other instance she had always noted the colors, the vibrancy of the room, like a luxury she could indulge in, but right now she is_feeling_ more than anything, and that hasn't happened before. She feels a startling clarity of mind – the dream is usually blurrier and less sequential, but this time she would swear that she was actually physically here. She speaks – not about literature or politics, as they usually do. Instead she asks exactly what exactly what she needs to, in a low and carefully spoken way, the tone she know drives him crazy. Poised above him, clad merely in the racy underwear he bought for her, she is not willing to accept a denial – there's only one correct answer to her question.

"Are you sure you want to do this? Right now. With me."

He gulps, glances at the door nervously. Might be locked, might not – she's far from caring personally. And that wasn't why she was asking, anyway. She needs to know this. He looks back at her and their eyes click. Her heart leaps a little and he nods in the affirmative, possibly unable to speak by this point and she can't blame him. But she's not quite done; she has another question for him, to draw out the response she _wants_.

"You seem a little reluctant, but maybe we could come to an agreement of some sort," she says, leaning in close to his ear, breathing hot air onto his skin. "Would you be willing to negotiate, President Freedman?"

She never gets a verbal answer, and this time, Violet wakes with a gasp, hand clutching at the pillow on her left.


End file.
